


Cumbersome (and heavy) Body

by earthseraph



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Chronic Pain, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Gives Bucky That Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4479680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthseraph/pseuds/earthseraph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knew that he didn’t look like an old house. He didn’t look like he was rotting from the inside out- like there was termites eating his bones hollow. His body didn’t look dilapidated- arms buff and toned (one flesh, one metal), legs able to run miles without stopping, face with a natural Brooklyn grin plastered onto it. Visibly he looked his best. He looked like he shouldn’t know pain other than the pain that came from fighting. But he does know pain.</p><p>(Or: the one where Bucky hurts, doesn't tell Steve, Steve accidentally finds out, there's some massaging)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cumbersome (and heavy) Body

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from [Body by Mother Mother](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4o0WYiK52Dg)
> 
> The things I describe and talk about relating to chronic pain is from my personal experiences, they might not apply to everyone but they apply to me soo yeah. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He felt like how an old house would look and sound. Rotten floor boards, rusted door hinges, broken windows. The house aching and groaning in the wind, leaning to the side when a particularly hard or cold gust hit it, becoming a couple inches shorter when settled into the ground. 

He knew that he didn’t look like an old house. He didn’t look like he was rotting from the inside out- like there was termites eating his bones hollow. His body didn’t look dilapidated- arms buff and toned (one flesh, one metal), legs able to run miles without stopping, face with a natural Brooklyn grin plastered onto it. Visibly he looked his best. He looked like he shouldn’t know pain other than the pain that came from fighting. But he does know pain. He knows aches in his bones, he knows wanting to sleep all day because he hurt too much, and most of all he knows how much he _hides_ it.

* * *

* * *

All he wanted was to sit down- hell, even to just lean on something. Like that tree they passed a while ago, maybe even just park his butt on the trail they were running through. He just needed to rest somewhere. Let himself breathe a little, let his bones relax because he was as wound up as a fresh spring right now. 

There were little sparks of pain running up and back down his legs but they wouldn’t leave. They’d just stay there and wait until the next time he hit his foot to the trail then bounce back up. It was like the pain was playing racquetball against him and winning. And he just wanted to stop.

In reality, he knew he could stop- by all means he could. But he didn’t want Steve getting worried over nothing. And it was nothing. It was just some pain in his body that he felt every damn day since he got his own brain back. Just pain that followed him around like stink did death. It wasn’t anything that Steve should have to deal with, that Steve should get that little dip between his eyebrows for. 

So why make it a problem? Why bring something up that had to do with nobody but himself? He was a damn super soldier. Hack-job Serum embedded in his blood and running through his veins like salt did the ocean. He could fight off waves of men with his bare hands and not break a sweat, he could shoot a moving target through the heart with precision and not leave a speck of his DNA. So he can damn well finish the handful of miles that Steve likes to run every day in the morning. 

He’s not about to slow down for a little pain. Hell no. He’s going to keep up with the brutal pace that Steve sets, passing by trees and people with a only a blur of color and nothing else, jogging up the steep and rocky path with ease. Doing everything without so much as a wince ticking at the corner of his mouth because he is Bucky-fucking-Barnes. Once dubbed The Winter Soldier, The Asset, or The Ghost depending who you were. He was a sniper for the Howling Commandos. He _is_ Steve’s best guy. And a little pain ain’t going to stop him. 

He can deal with the pain later. Behind the closed bathroom door with his head back against the shower wall and legs splayed out in front of him because he can’t fucking stand up. He’ll let the scalding shower water hit his bones and pray to whatever’s listening that he feels better when he gets out because he cannot limp in front of Steve. Because he _won’t_ show that he’s weak in front of Steve. 

He’ll hide his pain behind a snarky comment and grin like he does behind the bathroom door. He’ll deal with how much he wants to curl into a ball by kissing Steve senseless. He’ll deal with the pain all by himself because he’s not about to let Steve worry over him, because he’s not worth Steve’s worrying.

Not with what he did for all those years. Not with all the blood he’s soaked himself in. Not with who he was and who he- in some ways- still _is_. 

He’s not worth Steve’s warm, big hands running over his body. He’s not worth the care Steve will undoubtedly pour into him- not worth the care Steve has poured into him.

So he’s dealing with it. Smiling at Steve with a false bravado while they run up the trail. Ignoring how much he just wants to kneel over and cry for a bit. He’s cool. He’s fine. There’s nothing for anybody to worry about.

He’s okay.

* * *

* * *

Bucky used to like mornings, many moons and years ago when he knew how to enjoy things.

Way back when Steve was still tiny and they lived in that little shack of an apartment Bucky would get up earlier than Steve just to watch the morning light come in. He’d roll over on his side, Steve still tucked into his chest, and look out the window from his spot on their threadbare mattress. He liked to watch the light dance across the room, shine off Steve’s hair, and flow around the dust. It was nice. Like his own perfect hour where he didn’t have to think about the money he and Steve didn’t have or the war on the horizon that he knew he’d have to go through and leave Steve behind because America needed all the able bodied men they could scrape up. It was an hour to himself that he could just hold Steve through and ignore everything outside the four walls of their room. It was one of the hours Bucky looked forward to every night when he closed his eyes.

Now, though, mornings were hard. 

Mornings meant waking up from haunting nightmares, waking up with aching bones, waking up to a Steve that thinks everything’s okay because Bucky lets him. At least when he’s asleep his body can rest. He can let himself seep into their Vera Wang mattress, relax back into Steve’s chest, and get away from the pain for a little while. Sometimes, he could even drift away into a world that was better than he knew. 

Like when he’d dream about when Steve was still tiny and he didn’t have a metal arm clinging to him. When he’d dream and remember their first trip to Coney Island like it was yesterday. He even dreamt about their future. How one day they could get married, have a little ceremony with the small pseudo-family they gained and the memories of the family they left behind. In the haze of dreaming he’d see Steve waiting for him at the altar and Sam standing next to him with the biggest grin on his face, Natalia walking him down the lane of pews before giving him away to Steve and-

but then sometimes- on the bad days- the dream would turn rotten. Rancid like the potatoes at the bottom of the barrel. Instead of Steve waiting for him it was The Chair and Pierce. Instead of Natalia walking him calmly down the aisle it was HYDRA agents dragging him. Instead of getting married to his best guy he was getting thrown into The Chair. Instead of Bucky he’s The Winter Soldier. 

He hasn’t had a dream that bad in a while, though. 

It’s been months since Steve found him in a random park. Months since he finally decided to stay and not disappear because he was afraid of hurting Steve, of being a monster. 

Back when he was barely going through the transition from The Winter Soldier to Bucky Barnes he had nightmares constantly. When he closed his eyes he’d see blood, when he drifted off to sleep he saw himself completing his mission and killing Steve. He tried for as long as he could to not sleep. To keep his eyes open for days without a hint of rest. But then he started to hallucinate. 

He saw visions of Pierce walking through Steve’s living room, HYDRA agents on the way to the bathroom, a tiny Steve bleeding on the floor outside his bedroom. When Bucky saw the vision of Steve on the floor he started freaking out. Screaming at the body because why the hell wasn’t he moving? He dropped to his knees and tried to pull the body into his lap, tend to the bleeding wounds, but he couldn’t. His hands would slip through air every time he tried and it wasn’t until two large hands on his shoulders pulled him back that he realized _none of this is real_. After a short talk and promises of revisiting the discussion later, Steve pulled him into his room and onto the bed. 

At first Bucky was hesitant. He was worried a nightmare would arise and he’d hurt Steve in his sleep but when warm arms wrapped around him, and a nose pressed to the back of his neck set out a steady stream of breathing his eyes drifted shut and he finally got some sleep. 

Now the worry of hurting Steve was pushed to the back of his brain. He didn’t think about hurting Steve because he knew he wouldn’t. Like he had some sixth sense when he was sleeping that made him not swing his arm a certain way after a bad dream because Steve was laying there. Not to throw the body leaning against him at the wall because that was Steve, his best guy. A sixth sense that let him protect Steve- and himself- while sleeping. 

So, for the most part, sleeping was nice. But waking up, that’s what hurt.

* * *

* * *

“You getting up any time today?” Steve said with a chuckle, tugging on the blanket Bucky wrapped himself in. 

Bucky cracked open one eye to see Steve tying the laces of his shoes, running pants tight against his thighs, and a too small hoodie stretching across his back. See, he’d be all for getting up and running when he had a view like that he could watch from behind, but there were a few slight problems. One: It’s fucking cold outside, Two: He and his body both agree on how much the cold sucks, Three: He’s in pain, Four: He doesn’t want Steve to know he’s in pain. 

“Maybe,” Bucky pushed the blanket off and sat on the edge of the bed, suppress a shiver when his toes touched the wooden floor, he shrugged, “depends.”

Steve finished tying his laces into perfect bows and stretched, muscles rippling, hoodie pulling up and giving Bucky a nice stretch of skin to look at, “On what?”

Bucky tugged on Steve’s hand and hummed when the other man stumbled in between his open legs, “Depends on how long you’re running for today.” He nuzzled his face into the soft fabric of Steve’s hoodie, smiling when Steve let out a hearty laugh.

“The usual amount, Buck.” Steve pulled himself out of Bucky’s hold, still laughing.

“But it’s cold outside, Stevie.” Bucky didn’t want to pout but he knew that it was seeping through his voice. 

“I can deal with a little chill, if you don’t want to come you don’t have to.”

Bucky could hear the concern and questioning in Steve’s voice and decided to screw it all. He pushed himself out from the warm cocoon of their bed. He tried not to let the wrecks of shivers visible through his body when his bare feet fully touched the ground as he walked to the dresser but failed. 

“Are you cold, Buck? I can turn the heat on, if you want.”

Bucky mentally cursed to himself and shook his head, “I’m fine, Stevie, lemme get dressed so we can go.”

Steve looked Bucky over, a concerned little dip appearing between his eyebrows, “You sure?”

“Positive, doll,” Bucky lied, his legs already hurting, “stop worrin’.”

“Okay,” Steve said, still watching Bucky, “tell me when you’re ready to go.”

Bucky nodded, gruffing out a “Gotcha’.” as Steve left the room, before slumping down against the dresser. 

It was going to be a long run.

* * *

* * *

Bucky wanted to cry. He wanted to stop running and just cry because he fucking hurt. He could feel his brittle bones aching like trees against wind, he could feel his thighs burning with oncoming cramps, he could feel it all, he could feel himself wanting to cry. 

He let himself fall a few steps behind Steve, not far enough where Steve would start to worry, but enough where he could let a limp slip in his jog and rub at the tears that pricked at his eyes. 

But of course he screwed up. 

Too busy rubbing his eyes and trying to will the pain to stop in his legs, he didn’t notice the uneven ground ahead of him. 

Bucky’s shoe caught on the raised ground and before he knew it, he was falling. He tried to shoot his hands out to catch himself before he fell but they didn’t move. They stayed stock still by his side, his legs cramping up to add to his misfortune- bending themselves to the side, not supporting him as he fell. Bucky cursed when his head hit the ground, dirt getting into his mouth and a throbbing pain from his ankles to his nose. 

Bucky let himself lay there. Not caring if anyone saw him, not caring if Steve saw him. He just let himself lay, his eyes closed, a trickle of blood running down the bridge of his nose, legs twitching with cramps. 

“Bucky?” He heard Steve say, “Bucky!”

He didn’t move, he didn’t want to, because Steve had _seen_ him. He can’t wake up in the morning and give Steve a lie and a kiss about how he’s feeling. He can’t be nonchalant when he stays wrapped up on the couch with a blanket, he can’t be casual about trying to take the highest grade pain pills, or drinks some of the calming teas Bruce recommended him. He can’t do any of those things anymore because here he is laying in dirt, blood dripping from whatever cuts he got from falling, his useless legs twitching with cramps, and because Steve _saw_. 

“Bucky,” Steve gently pulled him into his lap, (when Steve sat next to him on the dirt, Bucky didn’t know) “Bucky, tell me what’s wrong.”

He stayed quiet for a few moments, staring at the new rip in his sweatpants instead of Steve’s face, and feeling utter shame in his gut, “I’ve been hurting.” Bucky didn’t know how else to simply say what he felt. _Hurting_ was as close as he could get to that feeling because explaining that hollow-brittle feeling to somebody who probably hasn’t felt that sort of pain in years was like explaining what color the sky was to a blind person. 

Almost as soon as he finished saying that one word Steve was checking him over like a kid who fell of the jungle-gym, “Hurting? Did something happen? Should I call Bruce- Tony? Are you oka-”

“Steve,” Bucky placed his hand on Steve’s arm and finally looked up at him, “Steve, it’s nothing like that.”

Steve still had a frantic look in his eye but he exhaled slowly like he was trying to calm his heart, “Then how is it, Buck?”

“It’s.. it’s-” Bucky clamped his mouth shut and frowned, trying to find the words to explain what he was feeling, “It’s like the sound you hear when you step in an old house- that creaking- it feels like that in my legs.” 

“Did HYDRA do something to your legs?”

Bucky shrugged, “I don’t think so, but I don’t remember everything they did do as it is..” He couldn’t remember much from his days with HYRDA, just spots here and there, so if they did do something to his legs, he wouldn’t know. 

Steve nodded, that little crease of a frown appearing in between his eyebrows, “Okay, let's get you home, then.”

Bucky moved to get up on his own, forgetting for the moment that his legs were fucked up until Steve stopped him, “Not like that, I don’t want you putting pressure on your legs.”

“Then how do you expect me to get up?”

“Like this.” Steve said simply before lifting Bucky up off the dirt, bridal style.

Bucky gripped onto Steve tightly, freaking out when he lost his sense of direction, then slapped the man’s arm, “Steve, put me down!” Bucky could walk, or he’d damn well make himself. 

Steve shook his head and started walking, Bucky slightly bouncing in Steve’s arms like he was nothing but a sack of flour, “You can’t walk, Buck, and I don’t know what’s wrong with you so I don’t want to risk it.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. He didn’t really want to fight with Steve this early over something like his health, and in all honesty he was hurting. So, he let himself lean into Steve as they walked. His legs clenching every now and then- this run being the final string on them, he assumed- but not hurting more than they already were. 

“I remember doing this for you.” Bucky said quietly, he closed his eyes as they walked, not wanting to see the random park-goers stare at a grown man being held by Captain America. 

“Yeah, I used to get hurt a lot, mostly fights but also sickness, and when it was real bad you’d carry me.” Bucky could feel Steve’s laugh vibrate against his back and leaned further against the man, “I used to fuss and fuss about it, trying to get you to put me down, but you’d just roll your eyes and hold me tighter not caring about my excuses or explanations.”

Bucky smiled, imaged of a fussing Steve like a cat in water flashed behind his eyelids, “And so now it’s your turn?”

Steve nodded, “Been waiting a real long time to be able to take care of you, Buck.”

* * *

* * *

Bucky hated the Tower. It was huge, sterile, and made him feel like his every move was being watched- because it was. But here he was, sitting on an exam table, his legs dangling off the side, the paper crinkling under him each time he shifted. 

He could see Steve and Bruce talking outside through the glass window, Steve frowning with his arms crossed and Bruce reading things off a clipboard. He kind of wanted to yell that he was the patient, but he’d rather Steve deal with whatever’s wrong with him for the time being, no matter how selfish or unhealthy that was. He just wanted to be fine for a few moments. He didn’t want to be the guy who killed innocents or who lost all his memory. He didn’t want to have a metal arm, he didn’t want to know how to kill someone quietly, he just wanted to be Bucky Barnes again. And if that meant Steve taking some news for him, some possible bad news, then he’d let it happen. He knew Steve would understand.

A couple minutes of Steve and Bruce talking passed before they finally came into the room. Steve with a little dip between his eyebrows that Bucky wanted to smooth away and Bruce with a blank expression on his face. 

“So, what’s wrong with me?” He might as well get the blow delivered now. 

Bruce leaned against the counter, his clipboard propped up against his stomach, and sighed, “Well, there wasn’t anything shown in the x-rays,” he flipped a page on the board, “and you didn’t react to any of our reflex tests, but your pain is real, it’s just not _visible_.”

“How’s that possible?” Last time Bucky checked when you were in pain it was because something was broken, or torn, not invisible. 

“Well, it has to do with signals being sent from your nerves to your brain that get clouded along the way, which causes the pain.”

“And how can we stop the pain?” Steve asked, his voice cold and worried. 

Bucky looked over at Steve and held his hand out. He knew that he was the one in pain, physically, but Steve was mentally in pain, and he needed comfort too. Bucky gave him a small smile when Steve sat next to him on the bed, the medical paper crinkling under them, and Steve’s warm hands holding his between them.

Bruce smiled at the two of them, “We have some options. There’s pills-” 

“No pills, I don’t want to take anything that makes me feel out of it and almost all pills do, so..” Bucky shrugged and looked down at his lap, slightly embarrassed at his outburst. He could take pain medication- a high grade one- but he didn’t want to live off it, and it seemed like whatever was wrong with him was a life-long situation. 

“Okay,” Bruce nodded, “there’s topical creams- which I recommend, they’ll make the pain bearable if not completely gone.”

Bucky listened as Bruce went on with different treatments and items he could use to get rid of the pain, his thumb rubbing circles against Steve’s wrist, nodding along to let the doctor know he was listening. Bucky gladly took the ointments and wraps Bruce gave him, thanking him as he left before turning to Steve.

“Can we go home?” Bucky knew it would be easier to go up to their floor but he just wanted to lay in their bed, rest his legs and throbbing head in the comfort of not being watched. 

Steve nodded, leaning against him for a few seconds before sliding off the bed, “I’ll call for a car or get someone to drive us back.”

Bucky watched Steve leave the room and frowned. His face was pinched and worried, almost emotionless if not for that dip between his eyebrows that Bucky knew all too well. He figured Steve was worried- and probably upset- over his pains but he didn’t know he’d take it like that. That he’d blame himself for something out of his control. 

But didn’t he always? 

Steve took everything that happened to him and made it his problem. Him falling from the train, whatever HYDRA did to him and made him do. Steve took all that, formed into a ball of rage and love, and kept it inside. Locked in a cage with a key Bucky couldn’t find and bars Bucky couldn’t pry open. It was a flaw, Steve’s flaw- loving too much and taking everything personally. And Bucky didn’t know how to help Steve with it because it might be Steve’s flaw, but it’s also what makes Steve _Steve_.

* * *

* * *

Once they got home- after a little more patching up to his cuts from Bruce and a long talk of how he shouldn’t do anything extraneous on bad days- Bucky bee-lined it to their room. He stripped off his ripped pants and sweaty shirt in exchange for just boxers. His original idea was to just sleep the day off when Steve came into the room with one of the topical creams Bruce prescribed and told him to lay on his belly. 

Bucky could tell that Steve was still upset- not with Bucky, of course, but with himself, the damn idiot- so he complied. No sarcastic remarks about how Steve was becoming a mother hen or even an eye roll. He just slowly got himself on the bed, mindful of his aches, and let Steve rub the cream into his legs. 

He knew this is what Steve needed. Steve needed to be able to fix, or at least, remove some of the problem. He needed to _be_ needed and Bucky was okay with that. He was perfectly content to let Steve slowly work the ointment into his skin, he was content to have Steve’s large hands on him in an utterly intimate way, he was perfectly content to melt into their bed, very much ready to sleep for the rest of the day. And he knew Steve was content too. 

Bucky wasn’t sure how much time passed of Steve slowly rubbing the ointment into his skin. The whole time the room was totally silent other than Steve’s breathing and his content sighs- borderline moans, if he was being honest- making him feel more relaxed than ever. If he was just laying in bed, without Steve massaging him, he’d know what time it was down to the second. But when Steve spoke for the first time since asking him to get on the bed and he opened his eyes, he could tell the room was darker. 

“I wish you’d have told me, Buck.” Steve said quietly, cleaning the ointment off his hands with a sanitary wipe that he must have conjured with magic because Bucky doesn’t remember Steve stopping, “I’m not mad at you,” he continued, “just concerned.”

Bucky rolled over onto his back so he could face Steve, his legs slightly sticking to the bed where the ointment wasn’t completely dry, “I just didn’t think it was that big ‘a deal.” Bucky knew he was an idiot for not telling Steve, they trusted each other wholeheartedly, so he should have been able to tell him what was wrong with him. He should have been able to open up about it, but he didn’t think he deserved that concern- he still doesn’t think he does, not with what he did for HYDRA. 

“Buck,” Steve sighed, moving up the bed so he was sitting next to Bucky, “anything that happens to you- and I mean _anything_ no matter how big or small you think it is- that hurts you, is going to be a big deal to me.” He took one of Bucky’s hands in his and Bucky could almost feel what Steve was going to say next, “I love you and I’d give my life for you any day. So just- just trust me enough to tell me things, okay?”

Bucky felt his heart break a little for Steve and pressed his head into one of his broad shoulders, “I do trust you, Stevie, I really do, I just don’t think I deserve it and sometimes that gets in the way when I want to tell you things or when things happen to me. None of this is your fault-”

“And none of this is yours either.”

Bucky shrugged, “We can blame it on HYDRA and whatever they did to me,” he amended, “but nothing that’s happened to me or what is going to happen to me is your fault. Yeah, I’m in pain right now. Yeah, this probably would have been cleared up if I told you sooner. Yes to all of that. But we both can’t go blaming ourselves or each other for things that were done in the past by bad people.” He knew that was going to be something that both him and Steve needed to learn, and this whole situation brought it to light. He needed to trust himself and Steve enough to communicate, and Steve needed to not put the blame on himself. “It’s gonna’ be a learning experience for the both of us.” Bucky said, giving Steve’s shoulder a kiss. 

“But we got each other,” Steve added resting his head atop Bucky’s. 

Bucky smiled, leaning further into Steve, “Till the end of the line?”

“Till the end of the line.”

- _End_

**Author's Note:**

> Follow [my tumblr](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/) for more Seb Stan and cute animals.
> 
> (is 'gruffing' a word? I think it's a word.)
> 
> Also, please reblog [this post](http://pesmenos.tumblr.com/post/125692395735/cumbersome-and-heavy-body-by-earthseraph-rating) if you liked the fic?


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